


Oh Maybe, You Could Devastate Me

by oneforyourfire



Category: EXO (Band), Z.Tao (Musician)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-18 15:57:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11877891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneforyourfire/pseuds/oneforyourfire
Summary: Joonmi, she is in control, and Litao and Joonmi, they have a good thing.





	Oh Maybe, You Could Devastate Me

**Author's Note:**

> warnings: (cis) girl fic, (cis) girl on girl sex, facesitting mention, toy use mention, semi-public sex mention, “what are we” angst, “fwbs to actual relationship” angst
> 
> title from halsey's "hurricane"

Joonmi greets her 26th birthday with an orgasm, a shudder, a large, warm hand around her hips, Litao’s long, lovely fingers curling deep, deep inside her, tiding her through it. Joonmi greets it with a heavy moan, closed eyes, heaving lungs, jerking limbs. She greets it with the faint, delirious thought that it’ll be another year of this. At 26, she is older but none the wiser, older but only the worse for wear.

But Litao, she knows all the places to press to leave Joonmi aching for more, knows how to drown out everything else, distract her from this awful fleeting realization.

And Joonmi’s orgasm drains all the fear, the insecurity, the awful almost bitterness of this.

Joonmi’s eyes flutter open at the rustling sound of movement, Litao’s bare legs dragging against Joonmi’s sheets, and Litao’s fingers are slipping out with a faint, obscene squelch, Joonmi’s body—overworked, sated as it is—trying to keep her still inside. Wet and warm, those perfect fingers drag appraisingly up her thighs. Gentle and meandering, they tickle up towards her hips, resting finally on her navel, memorizing with soft caresses. It’s Litao’s favorite, favorite place.

Her fingers had been teasing earlier, testing, taunting, torturing, but all the more perfect for it. They offer the most beautiful, most potent, debilitating, white-hot pleasure. Acceptance, affection, affirmation, completion, some matter of relief, it’s all to be found in Litao, Litao’s body, Joonmi’s release.

Still panting, Joonmi catches Litao's heavy, hooded eyes. And she’s aching for her touch again. Already. Anew.

There's an office party to be had for her later, Facebook and Kakao notifications buzzing on her phone already, but this—Litao willing and eager and perfect between Joonmi’s trembling legs—this is a birthday gift to herself, an ill-advised indulgence, a gorgeous midweek mistake.

But Joonmi, just barely 26, she’s basking in the softness of Litao’s soft, awed smile, her warm, warm touches. You always look so beautiful when you come, Litao has informed her on multiple occasions. Meant it on multiple occasions.

And it’s worth it. It’s worth it.

Litao's hair is wild, her mascara-heavy eyelashes heavy, and her lipstick is smeared, extra slick with the wetness of Joonmi’s release.

She’s veritably all that Joonmi could ever desire. And Litao, she’s so, so easy to want, wants Joonmi back in turn. In a disarmingly honest, base, carnal, affirming, awful awful way. Litao proves it to her in moments like these.

And Joonmi is swept up in the enchanted and enraptured and maybe enamored but she doesn’t quite know, can’t let herself admit. Especially not tonight, not not just right now, not when she’s like this.

Joonmi’s taken care of Litao tonight, too, her own lips are still swollen, tongue still thick with the musk of Litao on her tongue, but she’s wanting to again. Gratitude and the afterglow have her clambering for more, threading fingers through Litao’s loose hair, urging her upwards for another round.

Litao protests softly, kisses her way down instead, nuzzling tellingly, tauntingly. The whisper soft drag of her lips startles a moan, a shudder out of Joonmi as she blinks hazily down at her. There’s a smirk in Litao’s eyes, the shadow of one in the corner of her beautiful, kittenish mouth. And Joonmi is already aching, already arching.

“One more time,” Litao tells her in a lilting sing-song. “Birthday girl.”

Litao paints Joonmi’s taut skin with a series of long, luxurious licks down down down until Joonmi is gasping, tugging, trembling for more.

And Joonmi’s first slumber at 26 is with leaden, sated limbs, soft exhales, the most beautiful woman curled behind her, eyelashes kissing against the nape of Joonmi’s neck.

 

Litao isn’t there when she wakes up. It’s her birthday, and Joonmi allows the faintest flare of disappointment and hurt to curl deep deep in her chest before swallowing it down with her morning coffee. Black, three sugars, all the more bitter with a potent, unidentified Something.

She’s 26. Maybe she should know better. Maybe something should have changed.

But no, no, she swallows that bitter insecurity down.

It’s a weekday. Litao has a job, too. And Joonmi has a birthday party at the office, messages to return. She can’t afford to be sad, can’t let this be anything less, anything more than what Joonmi has decided this arrangement entails.

Joonmi takes a hot shower to scrub the smell of Litao off her skin, brushes her teeth until the spearmint drowns out the taste of her own heavy want.

They’ve been doing this for 9 months at this point. And Joonmi’s been feeling this Something, almost Something for the better part of 6 months.

But Joonmi’s got it under control. Joonmi’s always got things under control. Joonmi is practical in every aspect of her life, save for this. She exists in the routine, relishes in order. Pragmatic, organized, stable, okay, Joonmi is okay.

Litao—Litao and her dark eyes, her sinful mouth, her high ringing moans, her drugging kisses—she is Joonmi's great exception, her great indulgence. But she’s subject to demarcation, too. Sectioned off for the sake of damage control, too. Litao is diet cheat days, Litao is payday splurges, Litao is reckless kisses and one-night-stands on vacations in foreign lands. Litao only happens on Fridays, Saturdays, if Joonmi hasn’t made other plans. Vacations and holidays if they’re both available.

And Litao, she’s an old habit, a safe, safe place to fall apart. A sure, reassuring thing. Sex with Litao, it’s always full-bodied, hot, overwhelming. Anything with Litao always is. Litao, she’d held her hand, gaze, attention, had left Joonmi so breathlessly on edge, the first time they’d fucked. And Joonmi had been irrevocably hooked.

And on her first Thursday as 26 year old, Joonmi fixes the hem of her skirt, tucks her e-reader under her arm to read during her 23 minute commute.

 

The first time, it had been in the bathroom of a gay bar, Litao’s hand in her hair, in Joonmi’s own, Joonmi’s face between her legs. Messy and eager and hot and forbidden, all tipsy-eager swipes of Joonmi’s fingers and laps of her tongue, groans buried deep inside Litao's warm and welcome body as the bass resounded deep in Joonmi's bones. Joonmi’s own hand had fallen free, her fingers ripping at her own nylon tights, tugging aside her own panties, fucking inside of herself fast and rough. And Litao—at this point just the nameless, tall statuesque blonde beauty—had spread her legs further, grinding down hard on her tongue. They’d come together, or close enough, and Joonmi had been dragged upwards into a slick, sloppy, eager, eager kiss.

A freak occurrence, Joonmi reeling from a breakup. This an infrequent spontaneous decision.

Litao’s name and phone number had been an afterthought, scribbled messily in lipstick across Joonmi’s arm.

It was the exact same shade Litao had smeared across Joonmi’s skin, her sheets, a week later. The exact shade Joonmi had scrubbed off her skin this morning.

 

But it's a sectioned off indulgence, the controlled, relegated chaos of passion and want and desire. Joonmi, she is in control, and Litao and Joonmi, they have a good thing.

Smoothing her hands over the material of her pressed white button up, tapping her fingers against her bare knees, she’s in control. She’s in control.

 

Joonmi has what her best friend has dubbed the "worst job in the world." Not just for her own disposition, as Joonmi has previously argued. But just in general. Soul-numbingly boring, except for when it’s soul-numbingly awful. People yell often, alternately scream, and Joonmi struggles not to do either.

An Auto Insurance Claim adjuster, Kim Joonmi, per her business card. The first person most call post-accident, or right after the police. At the recruitment fair she’d attended just one semester shy of graduating, it had been sold as a chance to help people, a chance to see people through one of their worst, most traumatizing times. But more often than not, it’s Joonmi deferring responsibility, attempting to cut losses, making sure her company doesn’t spend overmuch. And there’s the heavy paperwork, heavy reading, heavy caseload, only the occasional smile. Joonmi, a mere cog in the machine, a demoralized, tired, overworked cog in the machine, she thinks on her worst days. And Joonmi, she should really quit, Jungda often insists. This shit is bad for her soul.

Jungda repeats it again, some variation of it—Joonmi honestly isn’t paying attention—over Joonmi’s paltry birthday lunch, a deli chicken salad speared listlessly with a cheap plastic fork. She works in the same building, and they each lunch together Monday through Friday, on the playground when the weather allows, in a nearby café when it doesn't. Today, it's the former case, both women looking out onto the Jungle Gym to watch young children scream as their nannies to watch how high they can climb, how fast they can swing or run or spin. Joonmi takes another bite, hums as Jungda continues to talk.

"There's an opening in my office's call center," Jungda offers, turning to catch Joonmi's eyes in the soft afternoon light, folding her legs primly beneath her on the park bench. "You've got the people skills, and I can be a reference if you'd like to—"

“I—I was with Tao last night,” Joonmi interrupts, to change the subject, confess it and make it less awful and ugly in her mind. Absolve herself of it, maybe.

Because Tao, she's also something wrong, Jungda has chided in the past. Also bad for her soul.

And true to form, Jungda is sighing, shaking her head, her hand halting on its way to her mouth. She's eating a salad, too, but Caesar. The ranch has stained the sides of her mouth, Joonmi notes, as she turns to meet Jungda’s gaze.

"Why?" Jungda says, eyebrows furrowing, lips turning down, eyes catching her own. She sets her fork down. "Why would you do that?" And there's concern there, judgement there, pity underneath, and Joonmi hates it. Joonmi, Tao, what they have together, it isn't something to _pitied_. It doesn't deserve that tone of voice, that quirk of brow.

"It was my birthday," Joonmi responds, setting her fork down, too, pushing her empty little plastic container forward. She—we..." Joonmi trails off.

Turning to her, Jungda nods minutely, dabs her napkin against her pursed dark red lips.

And Joonmi doesn't want to tell her the before, how beautiful, perfect, precious it had been to come home only to find Tao already there, to be serenaded by birthday candelight, to have someone warm and willing and wickedly beautiful—somebody that wanted her back—wanting her back then, telling her that she was wanted, that she was worthy. And those memories, a giggling Litao spoonfeeding Joonmi Chinese takeout, kissing Joonmi breathless, holding Joonmi's hand as Joonmi had slid down her body to taste that want, know that want. Litao had fucking worshipped her body in the aftermath, traced every single centimeter of skin until Joonmi felt beautiful and perfect and wanted and loved.

But these memories, these facts are all too precious and beautiful to be made ugly in the harsh light of noon. To be dissected by Jungda's well-meaning, but blunt, blunt assessment.

Because Jungda, she's a hedonist but practical, too. Or more appropriately pragmatic, she forgets often that Joonmi is the unnie, that she should be deferring not chiding about this Litao-shaped problem in her life, shouldn’t be urging her to put a more concrete label on this or just fucking stop. Joonmi was allowed to stop, Litao hurt her so much, made her miserable.

But no, not all the time. Only when Joonmi fucks it up by wanting too much, deprecating what they already have. And no, Jungda doesn't know, doesn't know all the beautiful, beautiful parts that make this all worth it. Joonmi and Litao, they have a good thing—a fucking great thing. And Joonmi has it under control.

Joonmi regrets bringing it up, turns back to squint as a particular brave little boy—Chanyeol, if his mother's screams are anything to go by—screams back about how he can do it. He can touch the sky if he just keeps trying. He can he can he can, was Kyungsoo-yah watching, he can he can he can. Hyung definitely can.

And a little boy, bespectacled, dressed in overalls and a striped shirt, standing, shaking, screams also about how Chanyeol shouldn’t. Please, please come down, hyung. He believed him. He believed him.

But Chanyeol can touch the sky, and he can prove it. He's so close to touching the sky, if he just just reaches a little bit higher he can—

But no, he can't, demonstrates it in the next instant, when he falls hard, knees and head bouncing. He starts screaming almost immediately, and his mother picks him up in the next instant, soothing him as he sobs. It was almost like flying, and he was so close.

 

Unnerved, Joonmi recycles her container, her aluminum can, heads back to the office, Jungda silent and contemplative and chiding and not understanding at her side. Silent even as they part ways on the second floor, Jungda’s quiet smile serves as a goodbye.

She glances left to the picture from last years winter vacation—skiing—framed on her desk as she settles into her chair. They’re all heavily-bundled, pinkfaced with the cold, Jungda in knitted pink at the center—ever the social glue—head thrown back in a raucous laugh, arms around then boyfriend Yifan, Jungah in powderblue mid-laugh too at her right, Baekhee in neon green with her hip and elbow cocked in an exaggerated pose on Jungda’s left. Joonmi in gray, grinning at Baekhwa's side at the very end. The frame is too big. There is a noticeable amount of white space, the picture folded to cut out one member, a former love. Joonmi’s.

Her fingers trace absently over the embossed picture frame—Beautiful Memories in a lilting script—as she sighs.

Her computer burps to life.

Thursday afternoon has her fielding calls, filing reports, glancing forlornly at the Bulbasaur bobblehead on her desk as the hours drag and drag and drag. But maybe, there's a certain comfort to be found in the white noise of busy work, maybe that keeps something darker and heavier and tighter at bay.

And sometimes, Joonmi almost thinks that Litao is also a reward for making it through the humdrum of the day to day. Tao is splashes of color, life, in the mundane of the day to day, something to look forward to through the awfulness that this tends to be. Litao, bright and beautiful as she is, she tends to be a high point of her week.

Because Joonmi often hates herself for the distress in people’s voices when she calls, but she loves—learns to love herself for the pleasure in Tao’s voice, the gorgeous ruin of her ringing moans.

Joonmi still has good friends, hobbies independent of this. A book club with her Naver Group, movie marathons with her college friends Jungda, Baekhwa, Jungah, sometimes Minseon and Lu Han if time allows. She volunteers occasionally at the local library, keeps up with one or two kdramas. She has a life, a fulfilling enough life independent of this, and yet Litao, a one night stand stretched 9 months too long, she’s somehow the most beautiful part. Litao, she’s the highlight. A reason to feel fucking alive. And it’s terrifying to think about, much less admit. Joonmi can’t—can’t afford to do this again. She knows she won’t—

But no, no, Litao is a weekend thought, a weekend touch, and she doesn’t belong now, in this profane, mundane, ugly, awful place.

Joonmi brushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear, focuses on the task at hand. The Oh's, on their way back from a long, long vacation, they’d crashed their midsized sedan into another car. Mr. Oh, he’d hurt his back in the accident.

And it almost is like her soul is atrophying, the hours bleeding and bleeding and bleeding.

 

The office party they’d thrown her had been small, per Joonmi’s request, a dozen cupcakes with shiny candles by way of a cake, a muted song and a Starbucks gift card to celebrate, and the fanfare of it is over, for the most part. But Yixin—spacey, but friendly, sweet, smiling widely at her as she presses her dimpled cheek to the gray partition—still offers her another congratulation as she passes by Joonmi’s desk, alerting her that it’s 5:00PM. Time to go home. She should make the most of her special day and get the—a conspiratorial look behind her—fuck out of here.

Joonmi nods, then shakes her head hard, shaking free a few strands as she tries to shake herself free of the residual ache that Litao always, always seems to provoke.

She logs out of the system, spares one more glance at the framed picture on her desk as she grabs her phone, purse, keys, walks out the office door.

 

After work, as they bump shoulders, greet each other in the elevator, Jungda invites her—no fucking pulls rank as best friend and insists that Joonmi have a birthday dinner with her friends. She doesn’t care that it’s a weekday and Joonmi is worried about work in the morning. It’s her fucking birthday, and Jungda is already pulling her phone out and sending a notification to their Kakao group, inviting Minhee, Gyuri, Sungyeon, Junghyun, too. Honestly, the more the fucking merrier, Joonmi is 26 tonight.

Baekhwa decides—insists—on a bar, chicken, beer, bass-heavy music, the perfect, perfect place. Ever the center of attention, she makes the mood. Or at the very least makes a valiant effort towards it, urging Joonmi to drink more, insisting on—no more appropriately, forcing a birthday bingsu, a too-loud serenade in the quiet café, noraebang afterwards. Jungah apologizes—with her eyes, at the very least—but follows through with Baekhwa’s demands. Gyuri and Sungyeon and Minhee and Junghyun eager to play along, too, indulge and pamper and embarrass, too.

But when Joonmi pushes past that, squirms out of well-meaning but tipsily clumsy cheek pinches and head pats, quiet slurred declarations about how Joonmi is so kind and so nice and so so so beautiful—why, why hasn’t she found a better girl for herself—when Joonmi cuts through that, maybe, maybe, maybe there’s an almost relief in this. Kindness in this. A pleasant distraction, soft-eyed validation, in this. A way to detract from the sharpness of want, the oft-bitter dull ache, it’s stamped down, deferred, drowned.

Joonmi is not left alone to dwell on the bitter, intrusive thoughts that had plagued her first hours as a 26-year-old. And, yes, okay, Jungda is right, okay this is good, but only temporary. The distraction lasting only as long as it takes Joonmi to stumble out of her shoes and into her bed.

Dizzy with tipsiness already, more honest with herself like this, Joonmi doesn’t know why—can’t explain—22 hours into being 26, she’s still aching for more. Doesn’t know why she checks her phone, heart swelling impossibly large as she sees Litao’s name, another “happy birthday” message, a little cake emoji.

If she really, really is in control.

But Joonmi doesn’t dwell on it, compartmentalizes it away as she gropes for a makeup remover wipe, changes into her pajamas, responds to Litao’s message before turning off her phone, rolling over to sleep.

 

Friday, it's too hot, and Jungda hesitates as she stirs at her overpriced lemonade with her straw. Jungda is so seldom quiet, wary, slow to speak, and Joonmi blinks at her expectantly, stirring her own lemonade in turn.

But she doesn't broach the subject until their chicken sandwiches have been delivered, Jungda accepting Joonmi’s pickle and hovering for a good minute, hesitating still. Then her shoulders broaden with sudden bravado, and Jungda, falsely casual, in between slow chews, sips from her straw, she tells Joonmi about Sehun, the awkward, adorable, tall boy in her cubicle.

“Ooooh, Sehun,” Joonmi teases, drawling out the last syllable, and Jungda—unexpectedly—turns bright, bright red, her lips pursing and eyelashes fluttering as she talks about how maybe they’ve been flirting, but then you know it’s hard to tell sometimes in the office environment. Jungda had been flirting at the very least, but this boy, he’s so awkward sometimes so Jungda had really written him off as a lost cause but then—

“He asked me out for Monday,” she confesses to her sandwich, in a rush. Really, so so unlike Jungda’s usual approach to these things, and Joonmi bites back a smile even as he registers the news. “So I can’t—can’t make it to our Monday movie date. Gonna be making my own memories,” Jungda continues around a mouthful, more like herself, eyes twinkling as she waggles her eyebrows with a crinkle-eyed enthusiasm. False bravado, Joonmi knows, because her cheeks are still stained pink with residual embarrassment.

 

 _Come over?_ Litao texts as Joonmi boards the subway. Already anticipating the invitation, Joonmi’s on the Green Line for Tao’s sake, knows without being asked.

Because Fridays are at Litao’s, Saturdays at Joonmi’s. They have a system, a routine. Joonmi stops at the GS25 by Litao’s apartment to pick up two sodas—a Coke for herself, Welch’s Grape for Litao—two Chocopies, two bottles of water. She fingers absently at the loose change in her coin purse, divesting herself of her worries, her insecurities, her stress, her life beyond and independent of this. Stripped of it all, she falls into a familiar character, luxuriates in the freedom of it.

And Joonmi barely has a chance to set down the heavy plastic bag before Litao is on her, kissing her hard and fast and greedy. Her nimble fingers dance up Joonmi’s arms to thread through her hair, tip her head back to kiss her harder, faster, greedier, deeper deeper deeper as Joonmi tears at Litao’s clothes, fights to get at more skin. Drunk on the taste of her already, Joonmi drags her hands up Litao’s shivering sides to tug off her loose shirt, squeeze her bare breasts, then glide back down to grope her laced bottom. Purple lace, Joonmi’s fucking favorite, and she pulls away, just just briefly to catch a look before memorizing by feel alone, slotting their lips together to taste her again. And Joonmi swallows down her heavy moans, intent on provoking more. Rewarding herself, rewarding Litao, indulging in this never ever enough.

Litao bares in turn, too, lust-clumsy fingers stumbling along her buttons, sliding Joonmi’s zipper down so she can slide Joonmi’s skirt down, drag her fingers down the hem of Joonmi’s panties, too. Litao’s fingers splay then squeeze, urge Joonmi closer. She writhes against her thigh, hot and hard as she moans heavily into her mouth. Loud and so so responsive and so so beautiful and so so desperate and so exactly what Joonmi wants. Joonmi squeezes hard on Litao’s waist, grounding herself as she grinds down, rendering Litao even louder, even more responsive, even more beautiful, even more desperate. Litao’s kiss is slick, sloppy, as she shudders. And Joonmi’s dip into the back of Litao’s panties, whispering over the swell of her ass in tight, teasing circles.

Sucking hard on Joonmi’s tongue, whining high into her mouth, Litao gropes for Joonmi’s wrist, guides Joonmi’s hand to her heat. And Joonmi groans into their kiss, fingers trailing in a familiar circuit, dragging teasingly along her clit before sliding down to dip inside. Litao breaks the kiss completely then, her head tipping forward to crash against Joonmi's shoulder as she pants, wet and already so close to wrecked. And her moans, her breathless response spur Joonmi on. They have Joonmi curling, probing, pressing until Litao is shuddering helplessly, weak-kneed and so so helplessly hers.

Litao is taut muscles, tense moans, a trembling mess all for her sake. Only for her sake, too. There is possession and exclusivity even in this.

And Joonmi likes this better, feels more in control like this, dragging her own lipstick trails down down down, meandering paths from Litao’s neck to her breasts to her hip, peppering the occasional bite and suck, caresses that have Litao gasping her name softly, have manicured nails dragging in angry, painful red lines down Joonmi’s sides.

She loves it, arches into it, relishing in the helpless aggression of Litao’s desperate response, desperate want.

Dragging her mouth down the smooth expanse of Litao’s perfect body, hearing the raspy ruin of her gorgeous moans, Joonmi presses deliberately, tasting and relishing and ruining, claiming, burying herself as deep as she can.

Litao, she’s everywhere, mercifully so, the scent of her thick in the air as she begs, begs, begs for Joonmi to give her what she’s been aching for.

 _Only, only ever for you,_ Joonmi in her lust-driven delira imagines. _I want you most. You fuck me best_.

And Litao wants her, she fucking wants her. So fucking badly, so fucking openly.

The sleek muscles beneath her stomach shift as she grinds down onto her fingers, disconcertingly sensitive and responsive tonight, her vocabulary reduced to a loop of _fuck_ and _please_ and _don’t fucking stop_. Joonmi is so fucking alive like this, so fucking fulfilled.

 

Litao makes a big show of dragging her into her tiny, tiny kitchen to feed her afterwards. “Thank you for this orgasm,” she trills, teases, pressing her soft, soft lips to Joonmi’s temple, leading her by the waist, dragging her nose down the nape of Joonmi’s neck, her fingers down the trembling expanse of Joonmi’s bare stomach as she gropes in her fridge, heats her microwave.

And crosslegged across from her on her small mismatched stools, Litao hums at Joonmi as she jabs dumplings with her decorative chopsticks, urges them one by one into Joonmi’s mouth. It’s intimate and maybe even romantic, vaguely patronizing, as Litao pets her hair, coos about how small and pretty Joonmi is, nauseatingly sweet about it, as in all things. Perfect and so, so easy to want, as in all things.

She’s almost completely bare from the waist down, dressed in just a loose shirt, panties. There’s an enticing strip of long, long leg, and Litao raises her eyebrow as she intercepts Joonmi’s gaze, smirks before urging another dumpling into Joonmi’s mouth. She asks if Joonmi is craving something else entirely, wants to feed another kind of appetite, already lifting her knees to her chin, spreading her thighs, to give a peek of what Joonmi always, always wants.

But no, no, she has to go home—can’t allow herself to spend the night, be stained with the heavy scent of Litao’s skin on her skin, too. Can’t let herself start to want even more.

But she’s still so eager for her touch, lets Litao kiss her hard and heavy against the door before she goes home, trembling in her rumpled, sensible work clothes.

It isn’t a walk—taxi ride—of shame, really, when her heart feels so full and beautiful and bright, glowing with the residual brightness of Litao's smile, the warmth of her deep moans.

No, Joonmi doesn’t feel like shame until she's sliding into her own bed, peeling off her clothes to see the distinct blood-red of Litao’s lipstick, the fading pink and purple of her lovebites on Joonmi’s hips and thighs.

And even then, the shame is bearable, expected, a decent enough byproduct, all things considered.

She’s in control. She’s in control.

 

Saturday, Litao comes over, fucks her against the kitchen counter, fingers curling as she mouths her way across Joonmi’s throat, grinding hard against Joonmi’s own palm as she pants and praises and moans. Orgasm rushes upon Joonmi, welcome and shuddering as Litao bites down hard on her shoulder. Joonmi tips back with the force of it, head crashing against the cabinet. And in the pleasant daze of afterglow, she can’t help but realize this really is as good as she can ever hope to get. Enough, more than enough.

 

Jungda misses that week's film—Baekhwa’s choice Ghostbusters, a mood lifter as Joonmi seemed so solemn and whiny—on her first date with Sehun. They discuss the first chapter of Love in the Time of Cholera in her book club. Her favorite little boy, a solemn-faced Taekwoon, checks out his very first chapter book, per her recommendation. At work, there are 10 new cases on her desk over the course of the week. The details bleed in into each other in her brain, bleeding onto adjacent sticky notes, too. It’s a heavy, heavy workload, but some stick out. Some demand recollection. The elderly Mr. Park with his preexisting back and neck problems. The rich, entitled Mr. Kim with his repeated phone calls, loud, loud demands. And Mr. Jung's teenaged son, who had totalled their family car. They need it fast, please. Mr. Jung can’t afford to commute to work every day. He can’t. He cries on the phone, Mr. Jung. His wife, though, calling later the same day, she yells, curses.

Joonmi's days disappear in a daze of evaluation reports, research, auto shop inquiries and estimates. The air is heavy and humid against her throat, oppressive beneath the collar of her shirt, the smell of exhaust thick in her throat. Joonmi negotiates, negotiates, negotiates, before coming to agreeable terms for both parties. Mr Jung cries again, but this time from gratitude.

And the hours bleed and bleed and bleed.

 

Her wrist is aching by Friday, from all the writing she’s done, and she cradles it absently on her subway ride to Litao’s apartment, anticipating her “come over” text, behaving accordingly.

It’s the same perfect routine, the same snack foods, the same adopted persona and relief. The same needy, needy kiss by way of greeting. But Litao notes her hesitance, her wince, dragging soothing, nimble fingers over the aching joint. She kisses the inside of her wrist, drags her lips up up up until she’s kissing Joonmi's clothed shoulder, across her collarbone, up towards her neck. She kisses, licks, sucks there hard enough for it to maybe— hopefully— leave a mark.

Litao fucks her with a strapon instead, kissing her way across Joonmi's chest as she rolls her smooth, smooth dancer’s hips, making Joonmi gasp helplessly as she kisses her hot and sloppy. Legs trembling as they wrap around Litao’s waist, arms trembling as they tangle in her black hair, lips trembling as they press against hers, Joonmi is so so so alive. Mind lost in the white noise of pleasure, she can still make out the breathy ruin of Litao's own moans. Beautiful, perfect, so, so good, as Litao's hand slides down to work over Joonmi's clit, teasing, flittery just the way that Joonmi needs. She comes seconds later, whimpering Litao's name amidst a chorus of choked off gasps.

 

She brings the strapon to Joonmi's house the next night, too, pulling it out of a large ziplock bag in her backpack, eyes glittering, tugging it out as they finish their ramen. Her eyes are glittering later, too, but maybe also burning maybe also drugging as she fucks into her fast and so impossibly deep.

 

Jungda misses the second movie date, too, on her second date with Sehun, but it’s slightly less empty this time around, Minseon making a rare, but welcome appearance, her boyfriend—almost, almost boyfriend—Lu Han in tow. They watch Pretty Woman this time, Joonmi’s choice. Joonmi tries not to cry, fails, but Jungah is sniffling too in between fistfuls of extra butter popcorn.

 

And over lunch, in the cafe, sipping iced tea this time and poking at her chicken salad, Jungda talks about the way that Sehun’s large, warm fingers had felt playing with her knuckles as he lingered outside her apartment building and the softness of the chaste kiss he’d placed to the corner of her mouth, smiling into it as his nose grazed her cheekbone. Jungda admits to butterflies, tingles on her skin long, long afterwards. Dreamy-eyed, she still smacks Joonmi with her silverware for cooing, then turns the conversation around to ask about Litao. Joonmi chokes on her lemonade.

 

They have a meeting at work to discuss last month's revenue. Taekwoon checks out another chapter book. There are discussions of the tragedy of love in her book club, Joonmi the only unmarried, untethered member, feeling the weight of every word in her chest. The female lead smacks the first lead across the face for a biting comment about her family. There's another heavy binder of cases. Baekhwa floods their group chat with invitations to her crush's—Jonghyun struggling indie singer-songwriter, the latest in a fucking slew—upcoming guerilla concert in Hongdae on Thursday. They're supposed to wear blue.

Joonmi tries to politely decline but is dragged to it, nonetheless. She is jostled by college kids, dripping with sweat for Baekhwa's (libido's) sake, nonetheless.

And Friday is a welcome reprieve. Litao grinding down hard on her face, golden thighs trembling around Joonmi's cheeks, fingers tugging helplessly hard at Joonmi's hair as she moans about how amazing it is, how she can never ever get enough, Litao's a welcome reprieve.

Saturday, Litao on her bed, splay-legged and enthusuastic, staining the sheets with her scent as she gasps and moans and urges Joonmi's tongue faster, her fingers deeper, just just just like that Joonmi always always fucks her best, Litao like that, she's welcome, too.

 

Jungda, after prodding from Joonmi’s end, invites Sehun to their Monday movie night. They are three dates and three weeks in.

The film is Atonement this time, Minseon's choice.

Sehun is quiet, tall, a little dorky, very awkward, but sweet. Sehun shifts awkwardly in her periphery, closer into Jungda's side. Jungda shifts, too, leans against Sehun’s broad, broad chest, and Sehun holds her hand, thumb tracing absently, tenderly along her knuckles. He presses his nose to the crown of her head, melting into her. A mindless, careless caress. But so, so telling.

Joonmi’s chest feels tight, aches with a phantom pang of desire.

But she’s 26, three weeks into it. She's too old for this, too old to be longing for more.And maybe she still can't quite allow herself to admit it.

Baekhwa's running commentary on the current sex scene, it's a nice distraction, an easy out as Joonmi swallows her feelings down, laughs tightly about the long, lingering shots of sweaty, trembling limbs.

Sehun helps her clean up afterwards, shakes her hand. He’s veritably Jungda’s type, and Joonmi decides she likes him. She tells Joonmi as much via text when they leave. Kiss him for my sake, she says, laughing as she imagines Jungda squirming, squawking, being entirely put out but unable to let on because Sehun was taking her home.

But as she washes dishes, turns off her lights, slides into bed, she's overcome with an awful, painful realization anew. The lingering taste of cheap Gs Supermarket wine on her tongue, in her throat, head dizzy and heart needlessly heavy, she remembers that in those three dates, with a semiconcrete label—dating, exclusive though they haven’t talked about “boyfriend” and “girlfriend” yet—they’ve progressed further than Joonmi has, wants to have. Her throat is dry, chest tight.

 

Litao, maybe paradoxically distracts from the onslaught of doubt, of insecurity, of want, of pain, that she in her awful beauty serves to inspire.

Litao, pressed so, so, damningly close, eager and responsive, ever ever easy to want, she is all that Joonmi can focus on.

Stripped naked and hot and urgent, Litao bucks up towards every deliberate swipe of Joonmi's fingers, tongue.

Always, always decadently restless, gorgeously searching for something to do every time Joonmi eats her out, she whimpers about wanting to eat her out, too, together, at the same time. It's been so long, and Litao— as fucking good as this is— wants to be useful and good—better—in her ruin. She loves that position best of all, being able to taste what Litao's body, her response compel.

Then sliding clumsily to readjust, braced over Joonmi, her thighs tremble around Joonmi’s cheeks. Joonmi pauses to admire just briefly, the way that Litao looks braced over her, before she spreads her thighs further, licks her open slow and succulent. Litao shudders gorgeously, moaning obscenely loud, momentarily lost in it before she's recovering, nuzzling into Joonmi's thigh, her breath hot and fast and wet against Joonmi's skin. Before she's mouthing right right right where Joonmi is aching. Her tongue so warm and wet and wicked, much much much too skilled.

And Joonmi moans, too in response, a helpless tremor coursing through her body as she presses deeper inside, dizzy on the ripple of muscles, the taste of her desire, the crackle of her moans, the pleasure-pain, pleasure-possession in the way Litao's finger dig into her thighs.

Joonmi splays her own fingers across Litao's thighs, urging her closer, biting into her thigh.

It provokes a deep, husky moan, one Litao buries deep inside Joonmi's body.

Litao's got the most perfect fucking body, lithe, carved into sleek definition by hours of dance, martial arts. She is all lean muscles and gorgeous curves. Joonmi drags her hands briefly in slow, luxurious appreciation as she rocks up into the sinful press of Litao's tongue, luxuriating in the meantime in the thick thick taste of her on her tongue.

 

Joonmi falls asleep on her bed, a first. Sated and loose-limbed and plush-lipped and unnervingly affectionate, Litao pulls Joonmi close, whispering distressingly beautiful and persuasive nothings along her temple, her cheek, the nape of her neck.

Litao asks, and Joonmi is so helpless to resist. Too dazed with afterglow, too laden with want, to resist.

Litao is so warm, her bed, her touch, her body too familiar and welcoming, and Joonmi just fucking relents, melting into her warm caress, allowing herself to feel in its entirety.

 

But it does feel like a walk of shame that morning, bumping elbows with the early to rise—middle aged professionals, elderly men and women—on the subway, squirming in her wrinkled clothing. And it's worth it even then, fiddling with the hem of her skirt, combing fingers through her disheveled hair.

Litao and Joonmi, they have a good thing, and it's always always always fucking worth it.

 

Litao comes later that same day. It's slow this time, devastatingly slow, Litao so delicate and deliberate that Joonmi is trembling helplessly, practically sobbing. Needing. Every touch is seared on her skin, scraped into her memory. And it hurts even as it floods her with pleasure.

She's in so impossibly deep. Curled next to her on the bed, light fingers, heavy desire as she traces Litao's skin, down down down. They are face to face, but Joonmi avoids her eyes, skin tingling when Litao compels the contact. Her fingers cradle Joonmi's chin, tilt her head up to meet her eyes. Joonmi kisses her to avoid giving too much away, but her kiss does. Tender and reverent and much much too affectionate.

Litao sighs into her mouth, wraps an arm around her waist to tug her closer. She presses her face to Joonmi's chest, inhaling deeply. Joonmi's finger freeze from where they have been teasing at Litao's hipbones.

"Can I just stay here forever?" Litao murmurs lazily, bangs, lips, eyelashes tickling Joonmi’s skin.

Joonmi knows that Litao is referring to her breasts, wanting to stay there, but her heart gives the faintest jolt, for the shortest moment before recollection has her breaking it apart.

Litao asks her to stay, and Joonmi—against her better judgment, helpless to the direct appeal of dancing eyes and persistent pouts— agrees.

She finds her an extra set of pajamas, a spare toothbrush.

Litao eats breakfast with her that Sunday morning, bagels and cream cheese, last night's eyeliner and lipstick smeared. She tastes vaguely of Joonmi's toothpaste when they kiss and part.

 

Joonmi, reeling in the aftermath, briefly considers calling Jungda, asking for her advice, confessing it to make it less ugly and awful. But the moment passes, and Joonmi takes out her dogeared copy of Love in the Time of Cholera, tries to drown out her thoughts.

 

Sehun kissed her, Jungda tells Joonmi at lunch in the park, cheeks pink as she watches Chanyeol, once more, make an ill-advised attempt at climbing, a tree this time. Was Kyungsoo-yah watching, he wouldn't fall this time. Hyung had practiced.

Kyungsoo is, hands on his hips, watching warily.

But Joonmi turns to look at her, and Jungda starts to murmur, rushed, like she's really truly hesitant to confess this. Make it profane also.

But she continues, nonetheless.

They went out for bingsu on Saturday and held hands, too, and he asked first, cradling her cheekbone and whispering the request. Jungda's knees had nearly buckled.

"Hidden passion?" Joonmi jokes, and Jungda flushes, nods.

Yes, yes, so much more than she had come to expect. Then turning to face her, Jungda asks about Litao.

Joonmi talks about sleeping, and Jungda puffs out her cheeks. Her sigh is long-suffering, but her fingers are grounding, comforting around Joonmi's wrist.

"Just tell her," she advises. "Just fix it."

Joonmi shakes her head.

They both startle at a shriek. Chanyeol falling once more.

 

Jungah’s tastes tend to overlap with Joonmi's. And they watch Love Actually that night, Sehun, Lu Han, Minseon there once more. Seated between Jungah, Sehun, Joonmi doesnt try to hide her tears, neither does Lu Han. Minseon reaches out at one point to hold his hand.

Minseon comes by again, Lu Han brings cheddar popcorn, and Baekhwa smothers an obvious laugh as Jungah, Lu Han, Joonmi sigh dreamily at the screen.

She wrinkles her nose afterwards, while staying to clean and up. She comments on it airy and falsely casual. Maybe, maybe just slightly bitter that her latest crush hadn't worked out after all.

 

Work— life in general—is more trying this week. Joonmi steels her voice, hides the apology in her tone, in her chest as she explains that the fact they were behind in payments, means they can't benefit from full coverage. She Kakaos her way out of library volunteer hours, book club duties. Drained by Wednesday when Litao messages her. Her dance troupe is having a show at a local club. Tickets are ₩15,000, but Litao can get them for free. If, if Joonmi wants.

(Of course, Joonmi would want. Of course, Joonmi always wants)

It's on Monday, a movie date day.

Movie marathons are exclusively held at her place, and she apologizes in their group chat for dissolving next week's date, but something's come up.

Joonmi only bothers to tell Jungda what that something is. She isn't sure if Jungda counts it as progress or devolution, but she turns her phone over before Jungda has a chance to enlighten her.

Thursday, they eat lunch outside, and Jungda doesn't bring it up, pushing her plastic fork around and complaining about the humidity instead.

Friday, inside the café, she does. But only to wish Joonmi luck, wish her bravery to do and say what she needs to do and say. The words are kind, if not patronizing, Jungda forgetting once more that she is the dongsaeng.

 

Monday night has Joonmi in a nondescript bar, in her work clothes still, thrumming with anticipation as Litao steps on stage. In heavy makeup, tight tight clothes, in distressing character, she is smooth, gorgeous hip rolls, heart-stopping struts.

The performance is a modified cabaret, fishnets and lace and slow, slow dips, bent spines, and slow drags of her fingers up her own legs. Perfect and dangerous and so fucking easy to want, if the loud cheers in the bar are anything to go by.

Litao stomps to center stage, pauses to run her hand lengthwise up her thigh, lipsync about how badly she wants to find a man that takes his time. Seated on a stool, she spreads her legs in hot persuasion, tips her head back to bare her throat,throw her long curls over her shoulder. The harsh stage lights only serve to caress her body in gorgeous shadows.

Joonmi's heart is in her throat.

There are other women, gorgeous, gorgeous, too, but Joonmi is riveted, entranced, unable to tear her eyes away from the unbearable beauty of Litao. Exquisitely sinful and smooth and perfect and sensual.

 

Joonmi doesn't wait to get her home, get her at the very least somewhere private. She drags her into a bathroom stall instead to take her right there. Cheeks smearing with the residual glitter on Litao's navel and thighs as she holds her open, works and works and works her toward orgasm. She touches herself as she does, already so on edge herself, and she tells Litao about it. How wet and hot Litao makes her every fucking time, how perfect this always, always is. Litao whimpers, grinds down harder in response.

 

And despite the wonderful start, this week is also bad, but she doesn't skirt other responsibilities. She helps two children sign up for their very first library card, gets into a spirited debate about suffering as necessary for love, cries over a messy resolution in her latest kdrama, visits 3 different autoshops for her clients' sake.

 

Friday, it's what she most needs. Friday, it's what she most dreads.

 

Joonmi, she isn't sure of the best words, the best course of action, doesn't want to press Jongdae for her position on the matter either. But she operate on autoplit, muscle memory once takes the subway to Litao's home, goes to the convenience store, punches Litao's door code.

But there's a change in the routine tonight, Litao not kissing her as soon as she steps through the door, fully dressed in Monday's stage outfit. A lace bustier, lace panties, fishnets, heels. She whispers about how she has another show for Joonmi tonight. Her palm hot and heavy against Joonmi's chest, she urges Joonmi onto a stool, sits across from her on her own.

And the music oozes out of the speakers, renders Joonmi speechless, heart stuttering in her throat.

Tonight, like this, Litao dances just for her, every step painfully gorgeous, riveting, private, all the hotter. Joonmi fists her own skirt as she watches, twisting the material tighter and tighter.

"Come closer," Litao urges, balancing herself over the stool, legs open in invitation as she rocks her hips smooth and sinful to the filthy beat. Then _touch me_ , as she touches herself, dragging excruciatingly slow, appraising fingers down her own breasts, across her navel, to tease over her thighs.

And unable to bear it any longer, trembling with the force of her arousal and want, Joonmi falls forward, tracing reverently up Litao's spread thighs, nuzzling into the musky heat, sighing at the warm, familiar fragrance. This is where she most belongs, what she most loves, wrapping her hands around the span of Litao’s lean waist to tilt her further up, drink her in, feel her tremors, see her helpless desire, taste her want.

And shivering in her hold, Litao's rhythm stutters to a halt as Joonmi, compelled further into action, tugs eagerly at nylon and lace to ease Litao open with her fingers, her tongue. Parting delicate flesh, mouthing slowly and thoroughly to drag it out, feel the ripple and response of Tao’s heavy, heady desire, Joonmi relishes in Litao’s beautiful response. And Litao moaning helplessly loud, tugs off her own bustier, fingers clumsy as she pants for Joonmi to please never ever fucking stop.

Sensitive and quivering, hot and slick, she falls so so easily for Joonmi’s familiar, reverent touches. The sleek muscles of her bare stomach shift as she grinds down hard and eager, desperate but still so fucking smooth, her gorgeous body rippling as she writhes. Joonmi licks further into her, holding her steady as Litao whimpers so, so loud.

Joonmi voice is low, disbelieving, fingers tight around Joonmi’s shoulders, holding her there, clambering for more. Almost like in the haze of arousal, Litao has forgotten how much Joonmi loves being here, just how hard Joonmi can get her off.

Moaning into her, freeing one hand to press her fingers deep inside, Joonmi tries to remind her, fuck it into her. She shifts her lips to wrap them around Litao’s clit, sucking hard as she thrusts her fingers harder, harder, harder, curling sharply until Litao fucking _screams_ , her entire body tensing in a graceful, exquisite display of pure, pure pleasure as climax crashes over her.

She’s gorgeous and all that Joonmi could ever, ever want, purely hers in that moment, all flushed and sweaty and panting Joonmi’s name, still. And Litao as she sags, trembles with the aftershock, blinks down at her heavy and beautiful, she breathes Joonmi's name again. Allowing herself to slide completely down, she kisses Joonmi clumsily, gratefully, pushes her back onto the shag carpet.

Joonmi is still fully dressed, but Litao doesn’t bother with taking off more than strictly necessary. Disheveled and so enthusiastic, she slides to Joonmi’s waist, tugging Joonmi’s skirt down, her palms immediately coming up to glide up the bared skin. Her eyes slant up at Joonmi in blatant, heart-stuttering _want_.

Brazen and performative now, playful, she licks her lips sinfully, for show, dark eyes dancing up at Joonmi from between her legs. Her hair whispers against Joonmi’s waist and her fingers dig into the softness of Joonmi’s thighs, manicured nails dragging along her sensitive skin. Joonmi's legs tremble in her hold as Litao noses her way up, mouths at Joonmi through her painfully damp underwear. Her body clenching tight with a sweet, sweet ache, Joonmi chases the fleeting movement of Litao’s warm, skilled mouth, whimpering and trembling, urging her to slide her underwear down, actually actually fuck her. Chuckling against her heat, provoking a helpless moan, a helpless thrust, Litao follows through.

And Litao tonight is painfully thorough, painfully patient. The aching pleasure, slow burn, a simmer of arousal in her veins, everything building up and and up and up until there is only Litao and this beautiful, almost fulfilling enough thing. Joonmi’s back arches sharply, breath tight, body suspended before collapsing back as the pleasure overwhelms her senses. Orgasm is a type of reassurance, a type of justification.

By the time Joonmi recovers, loose-limbed and flushed and warm and sated, Litao is curled against her, affectionate and soft-eyed and smiling. Her gelled hair tickles against Joonmi's arm as she wraps strong fingers around Joonmi's waist to urge her closer, smiling when Joonmi readily follows.

Joonmi stays the night again, dragged into Litao’s bed, held close. Face to face again, so much skin on skin, she watches Litao fall asleep, traces her face softly, almost too reverently, letting her touch communicate all other feelings. Because late at night, like this, having everything she wants, she allows herself to feel, to admit, to reflect, to ache, to doubt, maybe almost to regret. But not enough to give it up.

And Joonmi would think, would maybe almost hope that the familiarity would render her less affected, less needy, less—less fucking _pathetic_ after all this time. But no, Joonmi still hasn’t tired of the heat of Litao’s mouth, the tan gorgeous expanse of her skin, the ruin of her moans, the helplessness of her own response. But no, Litao’s touches, her kisses leave the faintest fissure lines, and Joonmi is unraveling so so so slowly.

Litao is sweet like honey, slow moving, too. She melts slowly on Joonmi’s tongue, sticky-sweet and lingering in her mouth the aftermath. Addictive, and Joonmi's addicted

And even breaking it down, trying to think of alternate paths to have avoided _this_ , Joonmi doesn’t ever think she could have prevented this. No, she never really stood a chance. Doesn’t even now. Really maybe should leave, cut her losses, but Joonmi isn’t quite ready. Not quite yet. Will, maybe, probably never be. Because Joonmi can’t imagine a scenario in which she could ever say “no”—could ever _want_ to say “no.”

And maybe, maybe, almost maybe, for the sake of this temporary relief, Joonmi can ignore the pain provoked, the heavy ache of a burdened heart threatening to collapse. Joonmi and Tao, they have a good thing. Joonmi is almost in control.

Sleep doesn’t come easy.

 

Saturday, still reeling with the awful, muted alarm, Joonmi spreads Litao across her cobalt blue sheets, takes her with a marked desperation and ugly, insecure sort of possession. Tilted away from each other, not touching nearly as much as Joonmi craves, they use a double-ended dildo this time, working together towards mutual orgasms, moaning and writhing in unison towards a shared goal. It’s hot and slick and wet and still exactly what Joonmi wants.

Litao doesn’t ask to stay afterwards, and Joonmi is grateful.

 

There’s an odd sort of relief in work, in distraction. Something soothing to be found in the busy work of fielding calls, examining for damages, reading claims forms, attending meetings, writing reports.

And Joonmi ever helpless to resist direct appeals, she is staying the night—more and more nights—but avoiding the label, avoiding the discussion of even _having_ a label, watching and hearing about Minseon and Lu Han, about Sehun and Jungda. Joonmi starts a new fall drama, a college romance. Her group starts a new book, _Wuthering Heights_ , and just one chapter in, Joonmi is already feeling a sort of sickening empathy and hurt and understanding, swallowing it further down.

She’s okay like this, marginally in control like this. And Litao is too good a thing for Joonmi to give her up. Not yet, not yet.

 

She gets an extra day for Chuseok that year, and Litao is the first person she calls, the first person she pencils in.

Litao, distressingly, asks if she can pack an overnight bag, since—since there’s really no point in leaving, and Joonmi readily agrees.

She’s caught in the emotions, still, but she shifts easily into character, lets herself wrest control like this. A little part of her breaks, is put back together when Litao lets her give give give like this, divesting herself of her clothes, falling so easily and readily into Joonmi’s arms, into her bed, into her kisses and touches.

Litao is decadent and gorgeous and something to be taken apart and admired slowly slowly slowly, Litao’s helpless begs for more and faster, duly noted. 

Joonmi drags her forward, drags kisses up Litao’s bare, trembling, tense thighs. Litao’s head crashes back against Joonmi’s mountain of pillows, her breasts heaving as she watches her—eyes so fucking dark and heavy and hot—and Joonmi is drunk on this.

“Fuck,” Litao manages, writhing desperately, moaning so, so loud, pinching her own nipples, alternately tugging Joonmi’s hair as Joonmi’s kisses become more succulent, dragging, scraping her teeth. “Feels so _good_.” Joonmi spares a cursory lick, and Litao moans low, wet, legs jerking at the stimulation.

Joonmi holds her down, and Litao moans again, fist tightening in Joonmi’s hair as she writhes upwards in gorgeous, gorgeous need.

This _Something_ , unnamed so as to lessen its impact, it still informs her every movement.

And when Joonmi licks just _right_ , Litao’s entire body surges off the bed, hips lifting to chase the wet heat, her own mouth falling open to spill the most obscenely beautiful sound.

Another lick has a rush of moisture rippling against Joonmi’s tongue, hot and musky, almost too much for Joonmi to catch, slicking her lips, her chin. Joonmi wants to drown in her.

And Litao says Joonmi’s name just like a prayer then, just like an _I love you_.

Joonmi is so so far gone as to provoke it again, selfish for it, desperate for it. She presses forward for more, humming as she licks and licks and licks, shifts to introduce her fingers, devastate her further.

Her own body aches as she drives Litao’s body closer and closer to the edge.

“So good,” Litao gasps, fingers clumsy, but cradling Joonmi’s head, urging her helplessly closer.

Her delicate muscles spasm, quiver beneath her tongue, and there's nowhere nowhere nowhere else she would rather be.

Litao either, she knows, but it’s different for her. Because there are feelings here for Joonmi, awful and terrifying and ugly and vulnerable. _Please_ and _more_ and _only me_ and _want me_ , _want me the same_.

Litao’s beautiful, perfect, receptive, responsive, and Joonmi always, always, always fucking wants her.

And this is completion, she thinks. This is really truly happiness.

Tao quivering and falling apart, just for her, wanting her, only only only her.

Joonmi spreads her fingers, presses hard as she suck on her clit. Litao’s moan catches in her throat, muscles locking, jaw slackening, coming. Coming just for, because of her. Litao, ever gorgeous, primal and needy, just like this.

And Joonmi’s so fucking alive, fucking reeling with the swell of pride and arousal and affection and need.

It always, always is, between them. Always cosmic and overwhelming and hot and fulfilling.

And Joonmi is truly, truly fucked.

Literally too, when Litao recovers, spreads Joonmi’s thighs, tilts her upwards at her whim. Determined now, eager, Litao fingers Joonmi writhing and whimpering, sucking on her thigh, whispering all the while about how good it feels. Then as she bends forward, licks at her slow, succulent, exquisitely thorough, she groans about how _good_ she tastes. How much she fantasizes about this. 

And it takes Joonmi a painfully short time to come, subject to the overwhelming heat and weight of Litao’s touches, words, gaze. Orgasm quiets distress, overwhelms the fear. 

And it takes her an even painfully shorter amount of time to recover, grope for Litao in her daze.

As usual, she is cradled, held impossibly close, excruciatingly on edge and in need.

“Want to keep you,” Litao notes softly, cupping her cheekbone, her eyes dark and overbright and distressingly soft in the kiss of early twilight. Joonmi’s eyelashes flutter shut, and Litao moves closer to kiss away the wrinkle between her brows.

And when Litao says things like that, when Litao makes Joonmi ache, it’s harder to pretend—that this is enough, that this is what she actually wants, that she actually is in control. Harder to pretend that this is anything more than an achingly painful almost, second best.

Joonmi doesn't have a proper sense of purpose, a proper anchor it would seem, the proper amount of self-preservation to avoid this. And maybe, maybe that’s where “love” comes in. Maybe that's where Jungda's insistent _stop_ s come in. Maybe, maybe that's what makes this so broken and bad for her. But there is a danger in words, ensnared further ensnared, fully entangled and helpless and vulnerable and fragile and bleeding for this things’ sake. 

And she knows, it really it isn't fair to blame Litao for this. It isn’t even intentional, Joonmi knows. This hurt that Litao is causing. Litao wouldn't want to hurt her.

But even the bitterness of unrequited feelings, the sourness of her _want_ , it isn’t enough to ruin the moment, enough to have her pulling away.

And Joonmi feigns sleep until the moment of sharp, sharp insecurity passes, until Litao goes wonderfully lax in her arms.

 

The next days disappear in a blur of sex, food delivery, lazy movie cuddles, heavy, heavy feelings and a heavy, heavy heart. Joonmi tries to steel herself, tries to resolve herself to fight or acknowledge or let this finally go. But, it’s too hard, with Litao’s bare skin, welcome and warm and familiar, awful still, not what she wants still, but present and so fucking _perfect_.

Her heart, her mind, her body are all conflicted.

 

Joonmi tells Jungda that Monday and allows the younger to scold her, in need of it almost. Some acknowledgment of how deep in this she is.

The next week, she makes up excuses, makes herself unavailable, apologizing via Kakao message, but relishing in her self control. She uses this time to reflect, to think through her desires.

It doesn’t really help.

And the hours at work drag. And the kdrama and films have her on edge. And she opts out of both library and book club duties. She latches onto Jungda, Jungah, even Baekhwa for some way to fill the silence and previously Litao-dedicated hours. And she tries not to let Litao’s sad face emojis sway her opinion.

She feels herself still adjusting clumsily in the aftermath, to the sight of the world—less bright—without the glimmer of Litao’s eyes, the warmth of Litao’s laugh.

 

Jungda’s birthday is coming up in the next week, and Joonmi, for the sake of tradition, asks. But she already knows. Jungda wants, as every year, new pieces to supplement her Pokemon plushie collection, alternately cutesy animal-themed notebooks, alternately video game gift cards.

But Jungda, seated across from her at the café table, frowns pensively at her Cobb salad when Joonmi asks. And she reaches out to touch Joonmi’s hand instead of her usually trilling response of _Surprise me_. Her voice is low, eyes serious. And Joonmi, tensing, clasping Jungda’s hand, bracing herself, she’s already anticipating awkward conversations about Jungda’s sex life, lingerie, sex toys, advice of some sort, with the appropriate appeals made to their 13 years of friendship.

But instead—

“For my birthday,” Jungda says, slowly, softly, meeting her eyes, her expression strange, guarded, “I want to…go camping. At Noeul Park Campground.” Joonmi blinks, surprised, but nods. The corner of Jungda’s lip curls in a charming half-smile.

“Who do you want me to invite?”

“Everyone.”

But Jungda’s shoulders, for whatever reason, are still stiff, her eyes still—

“And I also—,” Jungda adds after a beat. “I want you to invite Litao.”

Joonmi swallows hard, something like betrayal coiling tight in her chest.

“Why?”

“I want to meet her,” Jungda states simply, matter of fact. “That’s what I want for my birthday. I think, as your best friend, I’m allowed to ask this of you.”

She moves across the table to make sure that Joonmi sends the message, reassures her in the mean time that she won’t hold a grudge if Litao is busy or doesn’t want to come. This is just something that she really, honestly wants, okay.

Joonmi nods numbly, thinks briefly, painfully about how Litao will be made profane then, scrutinized and found lacking, and maybe, maybe that’s truly what Joonmi needs, maybe this will offer a final sort of recourse.

 

And in her spare time, her _thinking and worrying and feeling_ time, Joonmi busies herself with Naver searches, ticket purchases, Emart treks, group chat messages, to swallow down the panic bubbling in her throat.

 

Litao says _yes_ , offers to bring marshmallows, hamburger patties. Lu Han and Minseok, they also say _yes_ , agree to bring cups, sodas. Baekhwa elects to buy hamburger buns, produce. Jungah can’t come, but she sends two jumbo sized bags of marshmallows, two boxes of graham crackers, and 5 chocolate bars. Joonmi buys the cake.

 

Laden with 7 duffle bags, 4 tents, three camping chairs, 2 ice coolers, split into 2 cars, they make their first step towards realizing Jungda’s 25th birthday wish.

Litao and Joonmi are placed in the same car as Lu Han and Minseok, Joonmi grateful for the easy silence, the sugary Mandopop oozing through the speakers through the long stretches of asphalt. Joonmi is equal parts grateful and distressed at the occasional brush of Litao’s warm tan leg against hers as they drive through the trees.

 

The air is richer here, the trees so green that Joonmi’s eyes hurt just from looking at them. Litao reaches out to hold her hand, as Lu Han and Sehun set up the tents.

Baekhwa readies the grill.

Jungda demands a proper introduction. Litao smiles wide and charming, calls herself Joonmi's friend, shakes all their hands.

They eat hamburgers, and Litao holds her hand again. Seated across from them, Baekhwa pontificates loudly on the benefits of modern living, texting a new somebody. Jaehwan, indie front man, plush-lipped, sharp-eyed, anything a girl—who's into men, of course— could ever want.

By the time they finish, the sun is starting to set.

Litao, though significantly taller, turns to lean back against her, melting as she sighs dreamily and watches. Joonmi drops a kiss to her shoulder, squeezes her tighter.

 

Jungda urges everybody to get settled into their tents. Jungda and Sehun together, Baekhwa alone, Lu Han and Minseon together, and Joonmi and Litao. 

Litao grins at her as she drapes herself over her sleeping bag, vinyl squeaking as she trills about how nice her friends seem, how glad she is for this weekend.

Joonmi nods absently, and Litao laughs, tugs her into a kiss. Light, chaste, but lingering. Their knees knock as Litao tangles a leg between hers.

Joonmi doesn't bother to unpack her duffle bag, settle into her tent, opting instead to kiss Litao breathless and pliant and swollen-lipped. Litao seems content to kiss her back, sighing softly into her mouth. 

A sliding knock has them pulling away from each other, however reluctant. 

Lu Han urges them outside. Campfire songs and general bonding, Jungda's orders.

 

They emerge breathless and slightly disheveled, hands clasped.

Baekhwa arches a brow. Jungda purses her lips. Neither comment. 

 

There isn’t a proper campfire site, but Sehun uses matches to light the grill, urges everybody to gather around for the night's festivities. They're seated on the rickety park bench. 

Jungda's cake, her birthday song, then hushed conversations, quiet songs. 

Joonmi pulls her knees to chest, cuddling closer to the warm solidity of Litao’s body behind her. She watches Minseon and Lu Han, Sehun and Jungda.

Sehun ruffles Jungda's hair before teasing at the fire with a long stick. He laughs at a pop and sudden flare. And Jungda watches him with the most intense fondness shining in her dark, dark eyes. 

And Joonmi recollects that Sehun and Jungda, they already love each other. Have already decided on labels, had sex, taken the right steps towards this beautiful thing.

And it really isn’t fair. Joonmi can’t help but focus on how utterly unfair it is. Can’t help but want, too.

But Litao is right here, humming along to a soft rendition of Baekhwa's "Time After Time." And she wants Joonmi, not even just for sex. She wants to spend time with her, wants to feed her and hug her and hold her hand. And this—this is okay.

Joonmi turns her head to nuzzle into Litao's chest, cheeks heating as she feels the rumble of Litao's laughter, her breaths.

"S'mores?" Lu Han proposes, and Litao jumps up immediately, jostling Joonmi from her warm cocoon, offering to help. 

Lu Han holds out a hand to help her down, speaking in a rapid rush of Mandarin. Litao laughs and responds in kind. They disappear to the cars to grope around for the supplies. Joonmi traces absent patterns over the scarred, painted wood of their bench.

“Is Litao your girlfriend?” Sehun asks, interrupting her thoughts. His voice is soft, the question hesitant like he doesn't want her to be offended, maybe like he thinks he isn't supposed to know. Because he doesn’t _know_ any better. "It's none of my business," he says when he sees her stiffen. Even though that's not—

"Practically," Baekhwa trills, irreverent and ringing. And Sehun's eyebrows furrow. "Joonmi _wants_ her to be."

Joonmi's mouth opens and closes. She shakes her head soundly, looks down at her knees.

"She's not," she says simply. "That's okay." 

Sehun nods. Understanding, almost apologetic.

"But you get that constipated crinkle smile whenever you're around her," Baekhwa observes quietly, serious, solemn, and Joonmi swallows hard. "Whenever you fucking _talk_ about her."

Et tu, she wants to say, accuse—Baekhwa is supposed to be on her fucking side—but even just breathing, it’s hard. Dread surges up her spine, oppressive and stifling, and no, she really can’t—not today, please no. 

"It's okay," she insists, word heavy with conviction. A lie. "This is good."

"No, it's not." Minseon's contribution. "It's not. You know it's not."

And Joonmi doesn't need this. She really, really doesn’t. She rises on shaky legs, aching.

“I need to..." Get away, be alone, not confront this awful, looming, consuming, painful thing. 

Sehun lets out this surprised sound, as Jungda rises, too, reaches out for her. 

Joonmi doesn’t want to cry in front of him, but she is. In front of them all, tears stinging in her vision as she tries to get away.

And Litao will be back soon, marshmallows in tow, and Joonmi, she needs to fucking leave. Litao can't see her like this.

She shakes off Jungda's hand, or tries. Jungda is strong and persistent, tugging her now, guiding her now. 

"We're going for a walk," she calls over her shoulder. And Joonmi's shoulders start to shake from the force of not collapsing with sobs.

 

They don't talk on this walk. Don't really walk, either. They only make it as far as a small clearing before Jungda is sitting her down, letting her cry and cry and cry. Not saying a word, just soft soothing sounds, soft soothing touches as Joonmi cries herself out.

It feels like days, hours before she does, but it’s probably only minutes, long enough for Joonmi to assume that Litao is back, maybe worrying. The thought alone startles another sob out of her, but Jungda—on her fucking _birthday_ —still lets her. 

Pulling away only when Joonmi is truly, truly done, at which point, she smooths back her hair, wipes at her eyes, drops a kiss to her forehead, squeezes her hand. 

They walk back together, Jungda offering a soft “It’s okay,” as they arrive. 

 

Litao looks mildly alarmed, but merely makes a welcoming motion for Joonmi to sit between her legs once more. Her fingers are sticky with chocolate, with marshmallow as she urges s’more after s’more into Joonmi’s mouth, laughing once more about cute she is, joking about wanting to keep her. 

Baekhwa sings again, and Jungda joins her this time. Drama OSTs and cheesy ballads, and Litao hums along. 

And it really, really is okay. 

Even if it hurts. 

 

And afterwards, when they’ve all showered, changed, separated for the night, in the soft cloak of night, amidst a chorus of disembodied hoots, the echoing cries of crickets and frogs in the still air, with her pajamas squeaking against the vinyl of her sleeping bag, Litao drags Joonmi into a heavy, heavy kiss, wraps her long, long legs around Joonmi’s middle.

They rustle, moan probably too loud, as they rush to get at each other's skin.

And Joonmi knows it doesn’t mean the same thing to Litao. She knows that she’s only find more ways to hurt and want and want and want. But the pleasure, the pain, it makes her feel so alive. 

And Litao’s so wholly hers in that moment. 

And maybe the deeper issue, the ugly and vulnerable and broken issue. Because how can you ask somebody to love you when you’re unworthy of her touch, when your orgasms aren’t even yours to keep. 

Joonmi is (not) in control. Joonmi and Litao (don’t) have a good thing. But it’s okay. Litao tastes familiar, warm, wet, maybe almost desperate, too, and it’s okay. It’s okay.

 

Joonmi wakes up her in arms. Litao stirs soon after, smiles at her. 

And Litao used to look prettiest to her when her eyes were glazed, lips swollen, slick, parted around moans. But now like this, barefaced, pillow-crinkled, sleep dusting her eyelashes, she's the most gorgeous thing that Joonmi has ever seen. So unbearably beautiful, perfect that Joonmi's fucking heart aches. And she knows there’s no fucking hope. No fucking point. 

Joonmi traces her cheekbone, cups her cheek, and Litao’s eyelashes flutter shut, breath warm against Joonmi’s wrist. 

And this moment is too beautiful to break, but everything is coming to a head. And it’s not—she’s not, they’re not—okay, but maybe, maybe like this. 

“Why do I always want you?” Joonmi breathes. Then, “Why are you so intent on being my everything?” when Litao opens her mouth to protest, to make this something it’s not. Some joke about sex, some joke about her real feelings. 

Litao blinks her eyes open, simply watches her, so so so closely, so so so unnervingly, balanced in the precarious moment, too. Maybe almost wanting, too. 

“Joonmi,” Litao says, and she sounds scared, unsure, wrong.

“What _are_ we, Litao?” Joonmi presses. “I want you much more than I’m supposed to. I want you all the fucking time? And I’m _scared_.”

“Do you want me —back, too?” Tao asks, careful, so so unlike her, hesitant and slow and timid. It’s unbearable. Looking at her, hearing her, wanting her most of all. Her hand shifts back to Litao’s cheekbone, cradling her face. 

Joonmi swallows hard, shakes her head “I don’t—I don’t." Litao's eyes are too beautiful, so full and dark, too distracting, and she drops her gaze. "I don’t want to be an obligation. I don't want to be something you—We have a good thing. I don’t want you think this isn’t a good thing.”

No, they don’t. No, they haven’t, not for a while. But Joonmi can’t allow herself to call it anything but that. Can’t let Litao think that that isn’t the highlight of her week. 

And Litao is touching her, too. Bolder, her chest, palm flat to feel her racing pulse. Joonmi shuts her eyes. 

“Tell me you want me to want you back,” Litao finally whispers, voice tight, words measured. “Please tell me, Joonmi. Please _let_ me.”

And it's so fucking hard to breathe. Goosebumps race up her limbs. Then Litao is touching her again, palm resting on her cheek, rubbing on Joonmi’s parted lips, repeating her request. _Tell me. Please tell me_. 

And Joonmi can't even speak, tongue so thick and chest so tight and heart so so so full. And she can’t—can’t allow herself to believe, can’t allow the long dormant hope in her chest to bloom and overwhelm her. 

“You _can’t_ ,” Joonmi insists finally, the syllables weak. Her eyes are still closed. She can feel Litao press closer. 

“Yes I can,” Litao insists back. “Yes I _have_. I—Ive wanted so long,” she laughs, voice tight and wet. “Since we started this thing, I've wanted—Tell me I’m allowed to want you the same way. Tell me we’re allowed to try.”

This is all backwards. This is all _wrong_. 

Thumb at her lashline, Litao urges Joonmi’s eyes open. 

“Please tell me I’m allowed,”she repeats. Please say something.” And Litao's eyes are fucking _pleading_. There are tears shining on her eyelashes. 

And it still, it still doesn’t make any fucking _sense_ , but Joonmi nods, croaks out a quiet _yes_. 

And Litao’s smile is blinding, beautiful, the biggest Joonmi has ever seen it, her arms suddenly tight around her waist, dragging her closer, her laugh so loud and relieved and bubbling with happiness. 

Barefaced, pillow-crinkled, sleep dusting her eyelashes, so fucking beautiful and asking to be hers, she’s the most amazing thing Joonmi has ever beheld. “Girlfriend?” Litao presses, pausing to nuzzle her nose, squeeze hard on Joonmi’s bare arms. “Can I be your girlfriend?”

And reeling still, but laughing, too, pressing closer, too, Joonmi nods, chest expanding impossibly at Litao’s responding kiss, shivering when Litao speaks against her skin, dragging her lips up towards her ear. 

“Girlfriend,” she murmurs, voice lilting and bright. 

And this—Litao and Joonmi like _this_ , it’s is a good, overwhelming, terrifying, beautiful thing.

**Author's Note:**

> double crosspost from girlexo 2015 and my lj comm


End file.
